


Post-It

by LokianaWinchester



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Mission Fic, Napoleon is a Tease, Prompt Fill, Protective Illya, and they are still with U.N.C.L.E., grumpy Illya, kind of, they are still spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 16:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14793734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokianaWinchester/pseuds/LokianaWinchester
Summary: Written for the following prompt sent to my tumblr: "We’re coworkers but we work different shifts and communicate exclusively through post-it notes. maybe i should just give you my phone number already so you can tell me more about the lady who ordered a latte for her ten year old."Hope this meets the expectations :)





	Post-It

**Author's Note:**

> Text in cursive is post-its, broad text are text messages; left-bound is Illya, right-bound is Napoleon, like when you text.  
> Enjoy!

It all started over a pen.

Napoleon was in a unique kind of office situation. Working for U.N.C.L.E. was in and of itself a unique experience, but as much as he hated it, even spies had to do paperwork. So Napoleon needed an office.

He was sure, U.N.C.L.E. could afford separate offices for everybody, but for some reason he was sharing his with another man. At least he assumed it was a man. He sure hoped, no woman was using the cheap cologne, his office always faintly smelled like when he returned from a mission.

“You’ll be using a shared office,” Napoleon had been told, nothing regarding with whom or why. Napoleon tried to find out who it was, of course, but the other man was extremely careful not to leave any personal items lying around and Napoleon was fairly sure, U.N.C.L.E. would not approve of him hacking into the guy’s computer.

So that was the arrangement. For some reason the two of them were never working – and somehow not even back at HQ – at the same time, which would help Napoleon enormously in finding out who he was. They shared an office in complete anonymity and when Napoleon was pacing around the room, on the phone one day, he grabbed the nearest pen to note something down, which just so happened not to be his own. He thought nothing of it and forgot about it. After all it was only a pen, and not even an expensive or especially fancy one.

He returned from his following mission, beaten up, but very much alive and sadly well enough for paperwork. When he got to the office after a refreshing three-day-holiday spent entirely at home, he found a bright green post-it note on his white desk. Initially, he assumed it must be a note from Waverly or even from cleaning staff, because who else would ever come in here and leave a note for him?

_Can I please have pen back?_

_-I.K._

Confused, Napoleon proceeded to get some coffee, before settling down in his chair and starting up his computer. Suddenly his gaze fell on a pack of colourful post-it notes on the desk opposite to his own.

The upside was, that he knew his office-partner’s initials now, whatever that got him. However, he had no idea where he had put the pen. He put answering off until the night before the next mission, almost a week later.

_I don’t have it._

_-Solo_

He used one of I.K.’s bright pink post-it notes. Maybe signing his name would prompt the other spy to do the same.

It did not. When Napoleon returned, there was only one desk left in the room; his own. At first, he thought, that he might finally have it to himself until he saw the boxes in the corner with the few utensils in the room that were not his own.

And on his desk another green post-it.

_I need pen back._

_-I.K._

Apparently, his cheap scheme to find out his name had not worked. Napoleon knew nothing more about him than before, except that for some reason he had broken his desk and he really, really loved his pen.

Napoleon wrote his own note on a ripped-off corner of his notebook, because he did not feel like going through I.K.’s stuff for a pink post-it note.

After contemplating it for a second, he added a smiley at the end of his note.

_Sorry. I could buy you another one. :)_

_-Solo_

The evening before he left for his next mission, Napoleon wrote a note for his neighbour about having hired somebody to mow the lawn as promised. The 86-year-old man could best be contacted by written note, because he was nearly deaf, so calls were out, and he was completely unable to use a mobile phone. One day Napoleon would tell his grandkids to teach him how to text, but until that day, they communicated through messy handwritten notes.

Once he was done writing it, he placed it on the door mat of the neighbouring flat before putting the pen back into his kitchen drawer.

Perplexed, he froze, when he realized which pen he was holding. The one I.K. was looking for. It was too late to go back to the office now, but he would definitely give it back to him.

And promptly, Napoleon found another green note on his desk upon returning to the office, that had been restored; an identical white desk for I.K. had been put into place and the post-its were on display among his otherwise monotonously coloured utensils.

Napoleon took his coat off and put the terrible hat, he had bought while on his mission in Texas, on the top of the coat hanger. He thought it looked hilarious and he had actually had a good time there, so upon getting back to the coldish, rainy weather of England, I felt good to have a reminder of warmer times with him. He got himself a cup of coffee before returning to his desk and oddly enough he found himself excited to read the note.

_Pen has emotional value. I need it._

_-I.K._

So he was still after the somehow sentimentally important pen. Luckily Napoleon was able to provide this time.

_Sorry I took it. I didn’t realise I had it. Forgive me?_

_-Solo_

He placed the pen neatly atop his note on another pink piece of paper. Smiling, he locked the office behind himself, already anticipating the next answer from I.K.

Indeed, he was not disappointed. Another green note was waiting for him upon his return.

_Thank you. You are forgiven. Are you cowboy?_

_-I.K._

Napoleon was confused. Why would I.K. think he was a cowboy? What about him could possibly give off that vibe? He was completely clueless, until he looked around and saw the cowboy hat that was still on the coat hanger.

Napoleon smirked as he wrote his next message. So maybe I.K. did have a sense of humour.

_No, I’m definitely not a cowboy._

_-Solo_

And so it continued. Napoleon found himself looking forward to the notes even when he was away on a mission and there was no way he could have one.

_Then why does room smell like you are?_

_-I.K._

Napoleon let out a snort at that one.

_Are you saying I smell bad?_

_-Solo_

His eyes crinkled with a grin as he read the reply

_Smells bad. Too expensive. Is bad._

_-I.K._

His eyes wandered around for anything he could use in this bantering, anything about I.K. he could twist into a flaw. His gaze fell on the desk next to his fingers as he took his usual pink post-it.

_At least I’m not smashing tables in half._

_-Napoleon_

He had expected a different answer to this, something grumpy, maybe a witty reply or even an explanation for the ruined desk. Or a denial.

_So your name is Napoleon Solo._

_-I.K._

Shit. He had not meant to sign with Napoleon. He found himself at a definite disadvantage, but I.K. would also not believe him if he said it was not his name.

_Yes. And what is yours, Peril?_

_-Napoleon_

He was anticipating the answer every second of his honeypot mission. Seducing a beautiful lady usually left little room in his brain for anything else, but he found himself thinking of I.K. way too often that week.

_Kuryakin._

Only when he looked closely he saw another message written in tiny letters.

_Is not my fault that tables break easily._

So he was strong. The desks were definitely not fragile.

_As long as you don’t break my stuff._

_-Napoleon_

He was going on a short mission, only a few days. Maybe their time back at HQ would finally overlap then. But something went terribly wrong and as he fell to his knees, clutching his side where a bullet had torn a deep wound into his flesh, he was fairly sure this was the end.

It was not, but he spent over a week in the hospital and another one on holiday back in his flat, lazing around, his only mission was not to injure himself further.

After that he was allowed back on duty, however he was staying in the office for a few days before he would be sent off on a mission as a supervisor. No physical work for him yet.

When he returned to the office he found not one but two notes there.

_I will not break your stuff._

_-Kuryakin_

Napoleon smiled. The man was endearing. His smile faded when he read the second message.

_Are you okay? I hear you had accident. Is bad injury?_

_-Kuryakin_

He was worried about Napoleon?

_I am ok. I was shot, but I will be back on my feet in no time._

_Don’t worry about me._

_-Napoleon_

They started talking about everyday stuff, except it was only every other week, sometimes almost only once a month. When Napoleon came back from a mission gone wrong and saw the familiar green notes sticking up slightly from his desk, his mood immediately improved. Whatever it was, that Kuryakin told him, he was grateful the other man did. But this had gone on for almost a year now and Napoleon wanted to get to know him, he wanted to text Kuryakin about whatever they were encountering when it was happening and not write him a crappy note two weeks later. The minute he saw the latest note, he decided that their days of post-it-ing were over.

_Woman at coffee shop bought coffee for child._

_Who buys coffee for child, Cowboy?_

_-Kuryakin_

Napoleon got a pen from his desk and wrote his number on a pink note.

Two weeks later he got a text.

**Coffee is not good for child.**

**-Illya**

Napoleon had waited for Kuryakin to tell him his name, he did not want to go searching in the U.N.C.L.E. databanks for his first name. Illya Kuryakin. He said the name out loud. It felt real, it sounded good.

**I completely agree.**

And so, they started texting. Sometimes, when he did not get a reply for days, Napoleon knew Illya was on a mission where it was better for his own and everybody else’s safety if he was in contact with his handler and nobody else.

But they got to know each other better and Napoleon found himself attracted to Illya. It was not the first time he was attracted to a man, but it was the first time he was attracted to anybody without knowing what they looked like.

Then one day Napoleon was going to the office, but something was off. The door stood a few inches open, the light was switched on in the room. His hand impulsively went to the gun at his hip. Quietly, he pushed the door open.

A large blond man was hastily going through a drawer in Illya’s desk. Napoleon cleared his throat, fingers gripping around the handle of his gun, but before he could do anything his wrist was held in place by strong fingers and a knife was at his throat, the man looming over him dangerously. Napoleon swallowed. If he did not have a blade so close to his throat, he would have found the situation incredibly hot, but as it was, he hoped he could clear the situation up before he was dead. The other man was clearly a trained individual, so he needed to be careful.

“Hey, hey, big guy.” The other man’s expression darkened.

“I work here.” He tried again. Recognition lit up the icy blue eyes.

“Cowboy?” The Russian accent threw Napoleon off his rhythm for a second, before he realised what the guy had just said, and he let out an incredulous laugh.

“Peril.” The knife was removed from his throat, the fingers around his wrist loosened and Illya took a step back.

“Well, I’m glad my nickname fits so well.” Napoleon joked; Illya did not stop glaring at him.

“Why are you here?” Napoleon continued to ask.

“I left passport here. I’m on my way to mission.”

“Did you find it?”

Illya held it up between two fingers. Then he ducked his head and left.

“Good luck!” Napoleon shouted after him, then ran a hand through his hand, face flushed in embarrassment.

That had definitely not been how he imagined their first meeting to go. Napoleon had not expected to get slammed into a wall by Illya, even though in a different context he would definitely be all for it. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his wrist, where Illya’s fingers had held him not a minute ago.

He had not expected Illya to be that hot. Napoleon had expected to find him attractive when their conversations were already enough to make him want Illya, but the man was beautiful. His body, though hidden under ridiculously cheap, bordering on ugly clothes, was well built, well-proportioned and his face – his face with fine features and piercing eyes; it seemed burned into Napoleon’s mind.

A shuddering breath later, he put the matter aside and tried to concentrate on his work.

“You’re going to be teamed up with another agent.”

Napoleon looked at Waverly expectantly. They had a lead on the head of a drug cartel, but Waverly thought he needed backup.

“Agent Kuryakin.”

He looked at Waverly blankly for a second. Things were kind of awkward between Illya and him, they still texted every now and then, but they had never talked about the incident in the office and Illya always avoided the topic of meeting again.

“Illya Kuryakin?” He asked for confirmation.

“You know each other? How?” Waverly seemed surprised.

“We literally work in the same office,” Napoleon deadpanned.

“I didn’t think you’d met before,” Waverly admitted. “Will it be a problem?”

“No, Sir.” Napoleon’s voice was steady, but his insides turned to jelly at the thought of seeing Illya again. Working with him. He had a week to prepare for it, but he strongly suspected, it would use nothing against the sheer force of Illya’s presence. The week was mostly spent, giving himself pep-talks, he could remember and give himself mentally when he was going to need them.

When he was waiting to be picked up at HQ for the mission, somebody stepped up beside him.

“Cowboy.”

Napoleon could not help but smile. Still looking straight ahead, he replied.

“Peril.”

Silence stretched for a few moments.

“So, we work together.” Illya said. Napoleon finally turned around to face him.

“It seems we do. You got your passport this time?”

Illya scowled at him and nodded. Napoleon’s heartbeat accelerated. The dark look in Illya’s eyes was sending heat into the pit of his stomach.

The journey went surprisingly smoothly and after some time Illya even began opening up. By opening up, Napoleon meant the singular statement of “Mission is important, Cowboy. Don’t mess it up.”

Still, it was more than nothing.

Their mission was to pose as customers, distributors for the drug to get enough intel and then go for the big boss.

Napoleon found it less than fitting that Illya got the role of the supposed customer whereas he himself was supposed to stay in the shadows most of the time, but those were his orders and he was going to follow them.

Every now and then Illya shot him glances, he could not make much of, it was more than just observance, bordering nearly on interest, but that was highly unlikely. He had been nothing but dismissive, almost cold since the incident.

Their rooms in the hotel they stayed at were right next to each other. Partly it was great, because Napoleon had Illya close by, but it made him wish, he was closer and that turned out to be pretty annoying fairly quickly. Napoleon heard Illya rummaging around, presumably getting ready for his meeting that night. Napoleon was not supposed to go with him, but that sure as hell was not going to stop him. He threw on his work clothes. No suit for a change, but durable, comfortable clothes, gadgets in countless pocket, each meticulously ordered. He was not going in actively, but he was also not going to let Illya go alone.

But the meeting went well. Illya towered over their targets, they seemed to respect him. Napoleon retreated from his hiding spot when they shook hands. It was over for now and Illya was safe. Napoleon hurried to the hotel, into his room, quickly stripped out of his work clothes and into a bathrobe. When he heard Illya in the adjoining room, he went to join him. Napoleon literally felt tension drain out of him when he was sure Illya was safe. Tension he had not realised he held. This childish crush he still had on Illya was going nowhere and yet he could not let go off it. He needed to lay off. The Russian was clearly not interested.

“Everything alright?” Napoleon asked, leaning against the door-frame, before he came in and closed the door behind himself.

“Yes. Another meeting is tomorrow. Party on Friday. Will be big event. I need you there then. We are definitely in,” Illya reported.

Napoleon was just about to answer when the door was kicked in.

Everything went horribly wrong after that. They had followed Illya back to the hotel, a gunshot the expensive vase on the table right next to Illya and a moment later Napoleon watched in amazement as his partner, knife in one hand, gun in the other raced across the room, jumping over the sofa effortlessly, charging towards the gunmen. Napoleon fought alongside him, and it was magnificent, watching him fight so graciously; for just a second, he was distracted.

Napoleon heard the gunshot and knew it was over. Either Illya finished up alone, or they would most likely both die here. The probability of Illya getting both of them out of here was very slim.

Napoleon felt the gunshot and knew it was so much worse than he just imagined. He fell to his knees, trying to keep pressure on the wound underneath his collarbone. He failed. Warm blood was coating his weakening fingers, an agonised groan escaped his lips. Before he fell unconscious, he saw Illya’s head whip around, then a precise gunshot to the head of a goon right next to Napoleon and a knee to the groin of another. Illya was a machine and all Napoleon could do was hope, he was powerful enough.

As it turned out, he was.

Napoleon woke up in a crisp white hospital room.

“Cowboy!”

Illya was there. Why was Illya there?

“Are you alright?”

Illya snorted.

“Is not question if I am alright. You got shot, Cowboy, you jeopardised mission. You followed me?” The memories came back to Napoleon now.

“Oh. Yeah. Wait, jeopardised?” He turned his head and felt the tight bandages around his shoulder shift. “You finished it? Alone?”

Illya’s anger seemed to dissipate at that, something like embarrassment settled on his features.

“Yeah.”

“Why… why are you not in a hospital bed?”

“I would think, nearly dying would shut you up, but apparently not.” Illya mumbled. But Napoleon needed to know, so he kept looking at Illya relentlessly.

“I guess I am just better agent than you, Cowboy.” A grin spread on his face and Napoleon immediately blushed like a fourteen-year-old girl. What was it about the broody Russian spy that disabled all his charm and all his composure?

He was not sure.

Waverly came by to lecture him as soon as Illya left. But he was also very curious about them.

“He was here all the time, Solo. He left your side only to go to the toilet. He hasn’t slept in three days.”

Napoleon’s feelings for Illya multiplied in that moment. He felt like he was going to explode.

“I don’t know, Sir. People just seem to grow awfully fond of me.” Waverly raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but Napoleon kept a straight face.

“Well, congratulations, Solo, you’re the first person he opens up to.” Napoleon’s heartbeat increased and unfortunately his heart monitor started beeping faster. Waverly looked at him, expression unreadable, his only reaction a small hum.

Napoleon closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Waverly was standing.

“You should be out of here soon. I’ll be back tomorrow for the final mission briefing.”

Napoleon nodded.

As soon as he was alone, he pulled his blanket over his head.

“Fuck.”

The mission briefing turned out to be an hour-long conversation between Waverly, Illya, another agent and Napoleon, held in Napoleon’s hospital room, seemingly designed to shame Napoleon into oblivion for his mistake and praise Illya to the heavens.

To Napoleon’s surprise, Illya defended him, as much as his actions could be defended at least.

He spent three more days at the hospital before being released into a two week leave.

“You’re gonna be on office duty for a while, Solo. Two gunshot wounds in a year is bad. You’ve got a lot of physical therapy coming up and a few sessions with a therapist.” Napoleon looked at Waverly, ‘are you kidding’ clearly written across his face.

“Just to make sure you’re okay and so there is a chance for you to return to active duty sometime in the next months.”

Napoleon scoffed. In his opinion everything was fine, but his opinion seemed to matter very little to not at all to Waverly.

At least Illya was checking in frequently. He was asking how Napoleon was doing, while doing both their paperwork. Napoleon felt bad, because he messed up the mission, it should be him doing the mountains of work, but here he was, watching an ancient episode on Star Trek at two in the afternoon in sweatpants and a t-shirt.

**You wanna come over after work?**

Napoleon thought he would at least offer. He could cook something nice, or order in, but he wanted to spend some time with Illya, selfish as he was, with the added bonus of disguising it as a ‘thank you’.

**We’ll have dinner. What do you like?**

Illya answered an hour later.

**I can be there at 6:30. Chinese is fine.**

So, take-out it was going to be.

Napoleon ordered food for 6:45, then lay down for a nap.

The doorbell woke him up hours later.

“Shit!”

He heaved himself out of bed, feeling his wound twinge as he skittered across the floor on his way to the door.

Napoleon threw open the door. “Peril, hi.”

“Cowboy,” Illya smirked. “You look like mess.”

“Uh yeah, I may or may not have fallen asleep.” Napoleon admitted, running a hand through his hair.

As they made their way to the living room, past a mirror, he groaned internally at just how right Illya was, when he called him a mess. His hair was still all over the place, starting to curl when not styled correctly. His shirt was halfway hanging off his shoulder, revealing the bandage. There was a bit of drool on his chin which he wiped away with the back of his hand.

“Dinner will be here in fifteen minutes,” he offered and Illya hummed in appreciation. They settled down on the couch.

“We have to talk.” It was not a request.

“I suppose,” Napoleon replied.

“Is not good, that you get shot so much. I don’t like it.” Illya’s eyebrows knit together as he growled the words. He seemed almost angry, but Napoleon registered the sincerity behind his words.

“Me neither.”

“Then why are you careless, Cowboy?” The accusatory tone irritated Napoleon.

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t get shot again. They won’t give us another mission together. I won’t be there next time.”

“Okay. I’ll be careful.”

Napoleon was thankful when the doorbell rang and interrupted the conversation.

They ate mostly in silence and it was not as awkward as Napoleon would have assumed.

“So, how did you manage to finish off those goons and get to their boss? That’s insane,” Napoleon finally broke the silence. Illya did not look up from his plate.

“I get… angry,” he mumbled between bites.

“When I get angry I don’t masterfully finish a mission in less than an hour,” Napoleon countered.

“I get really angry,” Illya insisted.

“So, what… you hulk out?” Napoleon asked with a cheeky grin.

“I what?”

“You hulk out. Wait, how many movies have you seen in the last ten years?”

Illya huffed.

“Three, maybe. I don’t remember.”

Theatrically, Napoleon buried his face in his hands. “Remind me to catch you up to pop culture if they ever give us time off together.”

Illya looked at him suspiciously, but he did not object.

They talked more easily after that, about earlier missions and accomplishments, about personal history, about hobbies and interests. Napoleon was grateful to be granted this; Illya opening up to him, speaking freely.

Finally, as Illya was putting on his ridiculously outdated jacket and getting ready to leave, Napoleon came back to their earlier subject.

“So, do you ever fail to finish a mission? If you get angry, I mean.”

“Yes. I don’t always get angry, Cowboy,” Illya responded with a fond expression that melted Napoleon’s heart. His brain short-circuited.

“Maybe they should let us do more missions together after all. It seems to work great when I get shot.” Illya was on him in a second slamming him against the door. A sharp pain shot through his shoulder, but he supressed any reaction.

“Never –” Illya’s voice broke. Glaring at Napoleon, he started again.

“Never say that. I hate seeing you hurt.”

But not even now, Napoleon could shut up.

“What’s it to you anyway? Why would you care?”

Illya’s expression gave him away for only a split second, but before he got it under control, hurt flashed across his face and Napoleon’s breath hitched. Maybe that was not the reason, because Illya’s hand on his chest pressed him against the door firmly and Illya was looming over him. Maybe it was because Illya’s face was coming closer and then – oh.

Napoleon made the most embarrassing noise when Illya kissed him; it was not gentle or delicate. It was forceful. It was rough. It was everything Napoleon had wanted for close to two years now. His attempt to grip Illya’s hair and pull him closer failed when he remembered that he had a gunshot wound in his shoulder, so he settled for his one hand combing through Illya’s hair before tugging roughly. Tilting his head, he deepened the kiss.

Illya took his hand off Napoleon’s chest to take his face between his giant palms. The simple touch made Napoleon’s knees go weak and he whimpered weakly into the kiss.

Eventually Illya pulled back, still his hands were cupping Napoleon’s jaw. The look in his eyes, when Napoleon looked into them was beyond description. Unspoken emotion turned the blue pools into wild oceans.

“I hate seeing you hurt.” Illya pronounced every word with care.

Napoleon did not know how to respond, so instead, he pulled Illya down into another kiss. His lips were softer now, worked more focused and Napoleon absolutely loved every second of the kiss.

Illya started crowding against him, which he was not at all complaining about, but he bumped into Napoleon’s shoulder and he could not keep back a flinch.

“We should stop,” Illya said, flushed.

“No, I’m… I’m okay,” Napoleon insisted.

“You are not. Shoulder looks painful. Get rest.”

Napoleon knew it was non-negotiable, so he stepped away from the door to open it for Illya.

“We should do this again sometime,” he grinned at Illya, who rolled his eyes in exasperation, but could not hold back a smile.

“Sleep well, Cowboy.”

Napoleon did not sleep well. In fact, he barely slept at all that night; he had too much to process.

When he stepped outside the next day, he found a green post-it note on his door.

_Let’s do this again sometime._

_-Peril_

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! Feel free to leave kudos and/or comments! Send me prompts or come hang out with my on [tumblr](https://lokianawinchester.tumblr.com/) :)


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